


The Bet

by amproof



Series: Hugh PicFic [2]
Category: Australian Actor RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hugh has a brilliant idea for making a photoshoot more entertaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the the Hugh picfic series I did, in which stories are inspired by photos. Pictures are at the end of the story.

  
They are twenty minutes into the photoshoot, joking and laughing about the oddness of the set up--a few boards, something looking like a log, a table stood on end and leaned against the wall, when Hugh suddenly stops and looks at the photographer with a glint in his eye. "You up for a friendly wager?" he says.

"Sure." The answer is immediate. The photographer knows that the best pictures often come when his subjects take an active role in the process.

"I'll bet you I can make you want to fuck me." Hugh is smiling as he says this, and the photographer is not sure what to think.

He settles for "I'm not gay, Hugh."

"Of course you're not, mate. Wouldn't be much of a contest if you were, would it? I'm not gay either. I didn't say we were actually going to do it, did I? We're just wagering that you're going to wish you could."

The photographer thinks about it. It won't do him any harm to play a game. "Alright. What are the rules?"

"You just take the pictures. Leave the rest to me."

"What's on the table if you win?"

Hugh considers it. "Satisfaction. Bit of fun. That's all."

"And if I win?"

Hugh smirks. "You won't."

The photographer echoes Hugh's expression. "I wouldn't be so sure, if I were you. There's not a gay bone in this body. Do you know how many women I've had?"

"Not as many as me, I'd wager," Hugh says. He talks over his shoulder as he pulls a suede sport coat on over his white shirt.

"Had three girls at once," the photographer says. "Triplets."

Hugh, still turned away from him, 'hmms' as the photographer goes into detail about the triplets. "Look, mate, if you want, I'll buy you a shirt that says 'Prime Hetero Stag', but for now, take my fucking picture because the bet is on."

Hugh whirls around and slams himself against the upright table. His shirt is open at the navel, and the white flaps have been carefully pulled open showing his stomach. The photographer grabs his camera as Hugh slides his feet to shoulder length apart and then wider. He presses his shoulders into the table so his pelvis is forced outward. The photographer sucks air through his teeth, which he attributes to surprise at the thump Hugh makes when he lands on the table and not lust. Hugh hooks a thumb into his waistband, and fingers curl dangerously close to the area that the photographer is not supposed to think about. The other thumb lingers innocently enough in his pocket, but this hand wraps around his hip. Game on.

"Nice try, bud, but not..." The photographer falters when he glances at Hugh's face. His expression is focused and on the edge of smoldering. He looks like he is just waiting for the photographer to get a clue. Like he tells his Boy From Oz victims, he can wait all day.

"Did you get what you need?" Hugh asks.

It takes a moment to figure out he is talking about pictures. "Uh. Yeah."

Hugh steps forward and drops his jacket on the floor in the same movement. "You want me in these for this one?" He holds up a pair of black jeans.

"We can try it."

Hugh changes in front of him. He does it quickly, nothing erotic about it, but the way he bends is smoother than a regular person, and the way he looks at the photographer instead of his hands when he closes the fly makes the photographer twitch.

"You want me on the board again?" Hugh says.

"On the stool, if you don't mind."

"Sure, mate." Hugh balances himself on the wood while the photographer adjusts his tripod. Hugh fidgets. "Wait. This needs something."

"Hugh, you're fine. You look great," the photographer says, but Hugh is already up, humming softly. He picks up his water bottle and leans against the wall for a moment, thinking.

"So what *do* you want if you win?" he says.

"I don't know," the photographer says.

"You don't know or you're scared that if you say it you'll lose?"

"I don't know. I haven't had much time to think about it."

Hugh nods. He looks at the clock. "Is it hot in here?"

The photographer snorts. Hugh looks sheepish. "That wasn't a line, mate. It's a hundred degrees in here."

"Well, come sit down and we'll get this over with."

Hugh walks back to the stool and sits down. "Happy?"

"Yes, except you need to put the bottle down, please."

Hugh squints at it and then a smile slowly stretches his mouth. He unscrews the cap, and before the photographer knows what is happening, water is flying everywhere, but mainly on Hugh, soaking his hair, his face, his shirt. Hugh drops the bottle. He shakes his head and drops of water fly outwards. He rubs his chest. Water glistens on his chest hair. The shirt plasters to him like a rabid fan. He leans back, hands on his thighs. His legs are spread, straining his jeans, and his damp fingers sit on the folds of black denim that map the way to his crotch.

"Ready," he says. He is staring at the photographer with eyes heavy and open, mouth slack.

Click.

The photographer starts to disassemble his tripod. "We're done. Thanks, Hugh."

Hugh stands. He smoothes his hands over his jeans, gives his wet head a shake. "Thanks, mate. So, bet's off, then?"

The photographer shrugs. "Sorry." He hopes Hugh can't see that his hands are shaking.

"Eh, it livened things up, don't you think?"

"Oh absolutely." The photographer turns around, puts his camera into its case. "I'll send you the pictures when I get them developed."

"I'd appreciate that." Hugh walks in front of him towards the door. The photographer, still bent over the case, watches him go. His eyes go straight to Hugh's ass. His mouth is dry, but he can't look away. Hugh turns around and sees him staring. His lips twitch. "Shame about that bet," he says. "Could have used the satisfaction."

"Yeah," the photographer says. It is more a croak than a word.

"Well, goodnight, then," Hugh says. He gives a cheerful wave and is out the door. The photographer closes his eyes and counts to five.

A week later Hugh receives a packet of photos and a videotape of a Justine Bateman movie about girls in a band. "Here's your Satisfaction" the note says.

He snorts. "Cheeky bugger."

"Who? Me?" says Oscar. He looks up from the floor where he is building a pillow fort.

"No, pal, someone else."

"Oh."

He calls towards the kitchen. "Hey, babe. Movie night?"

Deb comes in from the other room, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "Where did you get that?" she says when he holds up the video.

He beams. "I won a bet."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, Hugh. Again?"

The End  
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**HughPicFic 3**   
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